


Kidnapped.

by secondstar



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Q, Canon-Typical Violence, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondstar/pseuds/secondstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q gets kidnapped from within MI6. It's up to James to find him before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kidnapped.

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by ionsquare and echo-jewel <3 
> 
> I couldn't get the idea of Bond saving Q out of my head. Now, of course, I want to write it the other way around.

Q attempted to flex his fingers, but he found it difficult with how they had bound his wrists behind his back. His knees aching with the way he was being forced to bend. He concentrated on his breathing, wiggling his toes in his shoes and tapping his fingers in a rhythm to make sure that he still could. It hurt to breathe, and by his estimation he’d cracked a rib or two. His head was fuzzy, throbbing from being boxed over the ears multiple times. 

His kidnappers hadn’t been the least bit gentle with him, despite his being quite compliant since they’d managed to apprehend him. He didn’t think it had been more than twenty-four hours, but they’d taken his watch, phone, earpiece, and had even dug his tracker out of the back of his neck. It was dark, pitch black, in the tiny compartment they’d shoved him in. His neck was bent forward, his knees tucked up against his chest with his hands tied behind his back. They were travelling, that much he knew, by the bumps in the road and the constant stop and go. He’d scream, but it wouldn’t do any good. His jaw ached from the sock that was stuffed in it and tied around his face. It tasted disgusting, but he tried not to think about it. 

Despite the sock, his mouth was dry, his thirst apparent. The vehicle stopped abruptly, making Q groan as he felt like he would be sick. The lid to the box opened, and Q squinted up into the brightness. They’d taken his glasses, so the figures were nothing but blurs to him. He whimpered as harsh hands lifted him up, his body rejecting the movement after being in the same position for so long. 

Q heaved, bile rising at the pain of his limbs and muscles revolting. He was choking, gagging until they took off the gag. His body shook, unable to hold back in emptying his stomach. Someone yanked on his hair, speaking a dialect of Russian that he couldn’t quite sparse together when his brain was in hyperdrive. He sobbed as two people grabbed his arms, forcing him to walk forward. Instead, his legs gave out beneath him. 

He’d been through training, just like any member of MI-6, but it had been nothing compared to this. He wasn’t a field agent, shouldn’t have been in harm’s way. He was the Quartermaster of Q-Branch, an executive. Sure, he had perfect aim and could engineer anything required of him, but when it came to interrogation he wasn’t adept at withstadning much. His pain tolerance wasn’t very high, and he knew that would be his downfall, especially since the torture hadn’t even begun yet. 

Up until that point it had merely been the kidnapping itself, and the transport. 

Q wasn’t so sure he’d survive. He had to hold out, to die before he gave over information. He only hoped that he was strong enough. Pulling himself together, he allowed himself to be dragged into a building, counting his captors steps to calm his mind. Outwardly, he knew he seemed stoic and unaffected, but he was terrified. Dropped to the floor, Q moaned, his cheek resting against cool concrete. 

He hissed when he felt a sharp tug at his wrists, the binding falling away. Once more, his muscles protested as his arms were freed. It was short lived, though, as he was hoisted up into an old fashioned stock, his head and arms placed evenly apart, locked in place as he knelt. Well, he hung there, slumped down on his knees. 

What surprised him was the feel of water on his lips. He drank it down greedily as calloused hands yanked on his hair. More Russian was spoken, and he was able to put a few words together, talking about the state of him, how he’d soiled himself. 

He wasn’t surprised, considering how long he’d been in the box. Q thrashed when his clothes were ripped from him with a knife, screaming as cold water was splashed across his body. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, shaking. He was going to die. 

-

James Bond sat in M’s office, along with Tanner and Moneypenny, waiting for the debrief to start. He didn’t know what the mission was yet, was merely told to come in immediately without haste. By the looks on Moneypenny’s and Tanner’s faces, they knew why Bond was called in. 

“007,” M said, his voice grave as he sat in his desk, his fingers tapping against a stack of papers, his eyes meeting Bond’s. “It has come to our attention that our Quartermaster has been kidnapped.” 

“Q?” Bond asked, his voice lilting, showing his confusion. He policed his features, though, keeping his mind on the mission instead of the man behind the position. 

“Yes,” M said with a sigh. “His things are still in his office, and as of a few minutes ago, his tracker has been removed.” Bond’s eyes narrowed. “Moneypenny said that she’d been in the alleyway with him smoking, but left him there once she’d finished. As much as we can sparse together, she was the last person to see him.” Bond’s jaw clenched. “007, we believe he might have been taken right from underneath us.”

“By who?” Bond asked. “Who could get into MI-6, get away with kidnapping -- he’s a waif but he’s had training.” Everyone went through self-defense training, along with weapons, among other required classes. 

“The CCTV caught nothing, which leads us to believe it might be an inside job,” M said, his eyebrows lifting.

Bond stilled, looking at both Tanner and Moneypenny. MI-6 infiltrated with moles in not only Q-Branch, but everywhere. James looked down at his hands, his jaw clenching. 

“We need you to find him, Bond,” Mallory said. “Before it’s too late.”

Bond wanted to ask about Headquarters, about the moles, about who to trust. He assumed he was to trust no one, to go in blindly. He stood up, nodding his head

“Stop by Q-Branch -- they’ve been asked to supply you with the kit Q was readying for your next mission. It should be sufficient.” 

The question was, how the bloody hell was he supposed to find Q with little to no information, with no help except from Tanner and Moneypenny. Bond made his way down to Q-Branch, not surprised to find them running around as if their heads had been cut off. He managed to stop the first technician he could. 

“I’ve been sent down to retrieve a kit,” Bond said. “It was to be ready to be signed out.” Bond looked to Q’s station, barren, where he would normally stand with his back to Bond. 

“I’m sorry--” she started to say. Bond gave her a look, his temper coming forth. 

“I’ve been sent down by M,” Bond said, taking a breath. “Kindly get me the kit.” 

Bond followed the technician up the stairs, of which there were six, that led up to a platform that Q worked from, the giant screens in use in an attempt to find him, as well as keeping track of other agents in the field. Bond looked around Q’s station as he waited for the kit. There was a tea mug, dirty and half finished by the keyboard, a package of half eaten biscuits, his Anorak coat over the back of his chair-- 

Kidnapped. 

Q should be here, at work, safe. Instead, he was taken. Bond grabbed the coat, putting it over one arm as the technician reappeared, holding out a locked box. On it, there was a sticky note in Q’s handwriting. Bond took the box, then signed off for it with a tablet the technician held out for him. Without another word, Bond left Q-Branch. 

He didn’t look at the sticky note until he was in his car, with Q’s coat lying in the passenger seat. Bond frowned at it, taking it off the box. It read simply: ‘007, please return the equipment’. Normally, he’d crumple it up, toss it in a bin without blinking, but instead, Bond found himself pressing it against the dash. 

He had to find Q. 

-

Q had known that something was amiss in Q-Branch for precisely ten minutes before he’d been kidnapped. He thought he’d had time, but that was never the case. Q-Branch was corrupt, his own department sabotaging missions; moles trading secrets for a price. It was his job to vet his technicians, and he’d been betrayed. Of course, the man who gave him over had remained in London, leaving Q to the dogs. 

The problem was, they hadn’t asked him anything, so there wasn’t anything he could give up. They already had an insider, someone to give them information freely. Q wasn’t sure why he was still alive, why they had taken him instead of killing him. It was morbid, but true. 

Everything hurt, every breath, each movement he attempted to make sent blinding pain throughout his body. He had no sense of time, no sense of anything. He’d been fed broth, given sips of water, between beatings. He tried not think about it. 

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice weak, his arms straining as he held himself up. His hands were tied over his head, his feet barely on the ground. If they wanted to suffocate him, they’d need only to lift him a few inches from the ground and his own body would do the work for them. His lungs wouldn’t be able to take air in properly. He almost wished they’d do it. Instead, he could see them walking around him, the blurred outlines of his captors. He asked them again, this time in broken Russian, his trembling lips making the shift in language difficult. He could translate readily, could write it fluently, but under duress speaking was somehow almost out of his reach. 

“Nothing from you,” they replied, stepping forward. Q’s breath hitched as he was lifted into the air, his bare feet scraping at the ground, with only his toes remaining. His cracked ribs made him scream out, his head falling backwards as he tried to breathe. 

“Why?” Q said with a sob, tears streaming down his face. He didn’t understand why he was still alive. 

There was no answer. 

-

Bond took into account that someone in Q-Branch had betrayed Q, and he decided to check the CCTV himself for any signs of Q. He saw him leave the building with Moneypenny; there were shots of them smoking, even of Q lighting her cigarette for her. He was normally stoic, his face impassive, but Bond found the blurry footage off putting. Q was smiling, but not in the way Bond imagined he would if he was happy. No, Q had been hiding something.

Disregarding the information for now, Bond continued his search, using Tanner’s log in information instead of his own. What Tanner didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

There was a lapse in time, where Q disappeared, the footage tampered with but messily so. It was obvious that Q had been taken at half past eleven. Bond checked the car park CCTV, writing down the information of the licences that left within five minutes of that timeframe. 

He tracked each of the vehicles. It took time, but with nothing else to go on he found that it was his only trail. All of them were still in the country, but only one had traveled outside of London. Bond decided that had to be Q’s captors. He took the information, not bothering to follow any other lead, no matter how small it was. 

-

Q was on his back, his hands shackled to the table he laid on. He found it difficult to open his eyes, to even stay conscious. 

He tried to swallow, but found that his mouth was too dry to do so. He thought about MI6, about how they’d surely send someone for him. Of course, that was if there was a trail. Q’s stomach sank as he thought about an agent coming after him, trusting one of his technicians. They’d never find him in time, that way. 

Q breathed through his nose so that his eyes wouldn’t water, his eyes closed since he couldn’t see anything. They hurt him more, but he tried to drown out his own screams. He thought about M, the old M, about her recruiting him, trusting him. He wanted to do her proud, so he didn’t speak when they finally asked him for information. Instead, he thought about how to make a bomb, started reciting the periodic table from memory, louder and louder until he was gagged. 

Of course, if he was gagged, he wouldn’t be able to tell them anything. His last thoughts before blacking out where of James Bond, his mind grasping for something to cling to. He’d been working on a new prototype that he had been sure would make Bond smile. 

-

Bond was good at his job, one of the best, but there was only so much he could do. He considered himself resourceful, but he was at his wits’ end by the time he found the abandoned car. He’d stripped it down, looking for anything that could lead him to Q. There was nothing to be found, not even a sign of blood. 

He supposed that was, in fact, a good sign, though part of him wished he’d found even that. 

It was back to square one. He started to make his way back to his own vehicle when his phone started to ring. 

“007,” he answered. 

“007, this is-- well, that doesn’t matter,” the person said, whispering. “You’re looking for Q, right?” It was a female voice, distinctive. It was the woman who’d given him his kit. 

“Why?” Bond asked instead. 

“Because I know where they’ve taken him,” she said. “But you have to hurry--”

“Are you the mole, then?” He asked bluntly. He didn’t have time for this, any of it. 

“No,” she hissed. “If they catch me helping you, I’m dead.” 

“Go to Tanner,” Bond said. “But first tell me where he bloody is.” 

“I’m going to send you the coordinates,” she said. “Tanner can’t help me.”

“Of course he bloody well can,” Bond said, his eyebrows narrowing. “He’s aware. Go now, before it’s too late.” Bond ended the call, then waited for the coordinates to come through. If it was a trap, either way, he knew that he’d at least find Q. 

It wasn’t far away, or even hidden. A plain looking building, with people passing it by as if it wasn’t holding one of England’s finest assets. Bond wanted nothing more than to blow it up, after he’d saved Q of course. 

All he had was his Walther, phone, and his earpiece he hadn’t used since he’d left London. There was no way he was speaking to anyone else in Q-Branch. He swore to himself, though, that if there was no trap, that if that technician had actually been trying to help him, he’d thank her. 

He tried not to think about the time lapse since Q’s disappearance, about the possibility that he could be too late. Bond couldn’t think about that as he let his instincts take over. It was time to infiltrate the building and save him. 

-

Q hung once more, his toes barely touching the ground to hold him up. He couldn’t feel his fingers, the circulation cut off from the cuffs around his hands that held him in the air. A commotion brought his attention back to reality instead of being in the haze of his own mind, grasping at another form of reality where he could breathe easier. 

They were gunshots, judging by the noises he’d heard. Q panicked, tugging at his restraints, pulling himself up. He twisted instead, unable to grip the floor properly. Lifting his head, it fell back down immediately. 

He had no energy left to fight, let alone be afraid of death by gunshot. There was shouting around him, loud noises and then sudden agonizing pain as he fell to the ground, the chain lowered without warning. He tried not to scream, but he was sure what was a scream in his mind was nothing more than an outward whimper as he was hoisted up against someone. He thrashed around as best he could, trying to get away, ignoring the pain in his chest. 

“Q,” they said. “Q, it’s me, it’s James.” Q laughed, his fists clenched tightly. He blinked back tears, unable to see because of them as he shook his head. His imagination was getting the better of him; he must be dying if he was having full blown hallucinations. “Q, please.” 

Q felt a kind touch across his cheek, jerking away from it immediately. Then he was being picked up, his head falling back as an arm held onto his knees while they other was at his backside. He fought, though it was miniscule and did nothing to help him in the end. 

Placed somewhere soft, covered with something, he was left alone. In a panic, he grasped at the seat. He was in a car, the backseat by the feel of it. He managed to try the door, but it was locked. With his mind addled, he tried to think. He was blind, beaten, naked, and could barely move. Despite his best efforts, sleep overtook him, his body unable to hold out against the leather and comfort. 

-

James made sure to leave one person alive, shooting them in the leg. He knocked them out, shoving them into the trunk after tying their hands a little too tightly. He’d left Q in the car, making one final sweep before tending to him. He’d found a set of keys, able to free Q from the shackles that were around his bloodied wrists. 

Q was passed out, didn’t so much as stir when Bond freed him. He was bruised, discolored, among other things that Bond wasn’t fully aware of as he ran his fingers through Q’s matted hair. He’d covered him up with his jacket, his body filthy. 

Bond drove back to London as fast as he possibly could, stopping for nothing until he was back at MI6. He’d called Tanner on the road, secured a stretcher to meet him for Q. The woman from Q-Branch, as it turned out, had been sincere. She spilled who the mole was, the matter already dealt with by the time Bond arrived with Q. 

He almost followed them as they stretchered him away, but thought better of it. He had to report to Mallory, and then wash Q’s blood off of his hands. The man in the trunk was taken to medical as well, though he would be under a strict watch. They’d find out who the other moles where, having two of them in custody. 

-

Q woke up surprised that he could see. He blinked multiple times, his eyes adjusting to the bright light of the room he was in. There was a bed beneath him, and he was covered in a sheet and a thin hospital blanket. Constant beeping brought him closer to full consciousness as his head lulled to the side. He was at medical, safe in MI6. 

Beside him, asleep in an uncomfortable looking chair, was James Bond. 

Q closed his eyes, pressing a button that was in his hand. He felt the pain killers take over, making his body float in the air. He was safe, now, with James watching over him. 

When he woke the next time, he was alone in the room. Q sat up slowly, wincing as he clutched his bandaged ribs. He felt horrible, like a hangover times a million, his head fuzzy with pain shooting up every limb. He pressed the call button for assistance, then waited by sipping water out of the straw that was just within reach. 

Within moments, a nurse appeared. 

“Hello, dear,” she said, looking him over. “What do you need?” She asked. 

“What day is it?” He asked, his voice barely there. His limbs felt heavy, unbearably so. He tried flexing his toes, relieved to find that he was able. 

“The twentieth,” she frowned. “You’ve been in and out for about three days now.” Q covered his face with one hand, surprised to find it hooked up to the heart monitor. “You’re coherent enough, I’m going to go fetch the doctor.” She pet his shoulder, probably for comfort, though Q only felt helpless, weak. 

He’d survived, but at what cost? 

His heart monitor beeped incessantly, faster and faster as he tried to control his breathing but found it difficult. He was having a panic attack. Q took the heart monitor off, tossing it to the side as he kicked at the blankets, groaning as he realized he was hooked up to a catheter. 

“Bollocks,” he said, covering himself back up, aghast. His hands shook as he realized he couldn’t go anywhere. He wasn’t alone much longer, with nurses appearing because of the beeping. He pushed them away, though they muscled him back into place, speaking of broken ribs and bruised something or others. They also gave him another dose of painkillers, settling him. 

The doctor came in as the drugs hit his system. 

“You’re safe now,” he assured him. Q wanted to believe him, but he remembered what he’d found out right before he was taken. 

“I need to speak with M,” Q said, his speech slurring. “I need to, to M.” 

-

James never visited again, as far as Q could tell. He was debriefed, spoke his after action report allowed to Tanner, M, and Moneypenny from a chair in his room, a blanket covering him after a hard session of physical therapy. His hands needed it, after the circulation had been cut off, and his legs weakened from disuse. He was exhausted, but the psychiatrist assured him that he would be available to Q at any time of day, if needed. When asked if there was anything that Q needed, all he asked for was his computer. 

They denied him that. 

“Bed rest, Quartermaster,” M said. “You need to rest, after what you went through.” 

“I need busy work,” Q complained in his own way, which sounded nothing more than a demand and not the whining that he felt inside. “Please, M.” 

“I’ll have something brought up to keep you occupied,” M promised. 

He wasn’t wrong. Projects were delivered to Q for him to work on, but no computer. They’d assured him that the threat had been neutralized, but he wasn’t so sure. He was isolated when he wanted company, and yet every time Tanner and Moneypenny visited him he feigned exhaustion and irritability. 

They weren’t who he wanted. 

“Where the bloody hell is Bond?” Q asked Moneypenny the day that he was due to be discharged. He was in plain clothes, finally, sitting by the window with a soldering iron in front of him, along with various broken equipment that he’d been fixing. His lips were pursed as he looked at her, his eyes narrowed. 

“On mission,” she replied frankly. “Has been since the day after you were brought back.” Q cleared his throat, wondering why he’d assumed Bond would be in the country, not when he’d been about to go on a mission before he’d gotten kidnapped. Q nodded his head in understanding, didn’t say anything else. 

“Do you have someone, anyone to take care of you at home?” She asked. Q laughed derisively, shaking his head as he licked his lips. “No, I don’t suppose you do. We don’t really have much of a chance, do we? Finding someone.” 

Q said nothing, looking out the window as Moneypenny sighed. 

“Will you manage?” She asked. 

“Of course, Moneypenny,” Q said, giving her a small smile, though it was barely there. “I always manage.”   
-

The first thing Q did when he walked into his flat was make himself a pot of tea. His flat was quiet, too quiet. Too big, to immense. He shut himself in his bedroom, turning the TV on for background noise. Finally, he had a computer in front of him, his personal one, but it was a computer nonetheless. He signed in, going through his email until it was late, too late to order takeaway. 

He fell asleep with his computer in his lap and his tea forgotten on the nightstand. 

Q started when fingers through his hair woke him. Jerking away, he kicked back, startled to find James sitting beside him in bed. He’d fallen asleep sitting up, his glasses still on. James had the forethought to move his computer first, before waking him. 

“James,” Q said, his voice broken from sleep. “How did it go?” He asked, closing his eyes as James carded his fingers through Q’s hair. 

“Brilliantly,” James said, giving him a smile as he looked Q over. “Moneypenny called me,” he said, looking Q in the eye. “Said you asked where I bloody was.”

“Yes, well,” Q said, looking away from him, though his hand grasped James’ wrist. “You left me there, in medical, all alone. I was cross.” 

“I apologize,” James said, leaning forward, pressing his forehead against Q’s. “I didn’t want to go.” 

“I know,” Q said. “Thank you, James.” 

“You don’t need to thank me, Q,” James murmured, kissing him on the lips. Q breathed in the kiss, deepening it by opening his mouth, allowing James to take control of it. It was short lived, with James pulling away. 

“How are your ribs?” He asked, his voice soft. 

“Broken,” Q whispered. “But I’ll manage.” 

“When I found you-- Q--,” James looked away from him, concentrating on the TV for a moment. “I thought you were dead.” 

“I wanted to be... I don’t know why I wasn’t,” he said, his breath hitching. He hadn’t been able to talk about it with anyone, not in the way he needed to. He gave M the dry details, but nothing about how he felt, how abandoned he’d been. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill me, James,” Q said, letting the tears fall freely. Bond scooted forward, wrapping his arms around Q, comforting him. “But you came.” 

“I came for you,” James said, his own voice just as broken as Q’s. “They still don’t know, Q, about us. But they trusted me to find you-- I didn’t tell them.”

“It all seems so-- like it doesn’t matter, why does it matter?” Q said, clutching at him. “I don’t care if they know, I don’t bloody fucking care anymore.” 

“We’ll talk about it,” James said. “Tomorrow, even, if you like.” Q relaxed against him. “We’ll both sleep on it. But I’m not leaving you tonight. I’ll go in first thing.” 

“You came straight here?” Q asked. 

“Of course, you shouldn’t be alone just home from medical.” 

“Is it really over?” Q asked, linking his fingers with James’. 

James kissed Q’s knuckles, nodding his head. “It’s really over, the threat was dealt with. You’re safe.” 

Q smiled, finally believing it. He survived; James had saved him.


End file.
